


greenwood

by visiblemarket



Series: Historical AU Meme [3]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: M/M, class difference because those are fun i guess, i mean it's part of the historical au meme but, implied infidelity, maurice was specifically name checked so here we are, maurice!au is i guess the technical name for this, with my apologies to e.m. forester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 13:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: “It’s my birthday."“Is it, sir?” he says, glancing back for a moment, then away, looking almost guilty for having done so. Keeps his head down, and sets about cleaning the rifle.





	greenwood

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with a meme asking folks to [send me a pairing and a historical AU for me to write one scene of](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/160164593981/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-historical-au-and-ill). [youandthemountains](http://youandthemountains.tumblr.com/) asked for [MAURICE AU. ANY SHIP.](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/160536682166/maurice-au-any-ship) And what ship would be _the worst_ fit for the E.M. Forester's classic fixit for every bit of terrible angsty gay fiction that has ever existed? John and Chas, _obviously_.

“It’s my birthday." 

“Is it, sir?” he says, glancing back for a moment, then away, looking almost guilty for having done so. Keeps his head down, and sets about cleaning the rifle.

“Mm,” John says, taking a drag from his cigarette. Leaning against the doorframe, taking in the broad shoulders straining against the thin grey shirt, the thick dark hair curling out from beneath his cap. The large, careful hands rubbing briskly along the long metal shaft. 

“Well, happy birthday, sir.” 

“John’s all right.” He looks up, incredulous. John has to laugh. “No, I suppose it’s not. Chandler, was it?"

He nods, dropping his gaze again, reaching for a set of pistols — god knows why, John doubts that any of the hunting party had made use of them, given they’re all rotten enough shots with the rifles.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

His hands still on the barrel, and he shakes his head. “Wouldn’t say that, sir."

“What would you say?” 

A shrug, as he puts down the rifle. “You’ve better things to do than talk to me."

John laughs, and begins his approach. Slow, considered. Leans against the table, practically sitting on it — facing him, and Chandler looks up with steady green eyes, and then away when John lets his legs spread.

“American, eh?” John says, taking another drag of his cigarette, pressing his left knee into Chandler’s right thigh. 

Another nod, silent as Chandler moves on to the second pistol. 

“Long way from home,” John offers, and is met with a tense, slight shrug. “Scandalous past, or thirst for adventure?"

“Excuse me?” he says, surprisingly sharp; looks up again, brow furrowed. 

John smirks. “What _brought_ you here?"

“A ship,” he says, and drops his gaze again, not so quickly that John misses his smile: pleased at his own cleverness, no doubt. John holds back a chuckle, takes another blessed inhale. Shifts his knee along the side of Chandler’s thigh. The man stills — hands gone idle, breaths gone shallow. He peers subtly up at John; his eyelashes flutter, and his gaze drops back down to the table.

“Got a girl back home?"

“A wife,” he says, quick, quiet. He’s abandoned the pretense of working, has let his hands come to rest on his thighs, fingers a bare inch away from John’s knee.

“Blond?"

Chandler looks up at him, startled. “How did you…?” 

John smirks, running a hand through his own hair — he’d done so that morning, when mist was still rising from the ground, and found Chandler staring. Done it again at noon, when the sun was high, and winked when he caught the man’s eye. 

“Lucky guess,” John says, and inhales. And then, with calculated ease: “Must be lonely. All the way out here, on your own."

Chandler swallows, and looks up at him. “It…” he swallows again, clears his throat, but keeps his gaze steady. “It can be."

John smiles to himself, and reaches back. Stubs his cigarette out on the table behind him. Feels the light brush of fingers, over his knee, up his thigh. Turns back around, and finds himself being pulled down by the front of his shirt.

The kiss is swift and forceful, a desperate attempt to hide obvious uncertainty — the man clearly has no idea what to do with his hands. Keeps them still, one tangled in John’s shirt, the other grasping at his knee. John leans into it, reaching out to run his fingers through his dark hair, knocking his cap to the floor in the process. Pulls himself onto the man’s lap, straddling his thighs. A hand slips down to John’s waist — broad and possessive, fingers digging into the small of John’s back — and the other slides thoughtlessly up John’s thigh. 

It’s gloriously heady, a breathless, gasping collision of mouths and teeth, a messy tangle of arms and tongues. He smells of earth and grass, sweat and leather. John pulls himself closer, against the man’s chest, further into his lap, till he feels the strain of his erection. 

Chandler jerks back, suddenly. “The door, I should—"

“Locked it already,” John says, leaning in — the man pulls back, eyebrows raised, slightly accusatory, mostly amused.

_That sure, were you?_  he seems to say.

John shrugs, trying — not very hard — to keep the smirk from his face. _Shouldn’t I’ve been?_

Chandler huffs, almost a laugh, and John grins, leaning in again. 

This kiss is softer, sweeter. Wetter, as well, but Chandler’s receptive, stroking tenderly at John’s back, turning his head to seek a better angle. John lets him find it, matches the gentle laps of his tongue, and rocks his hips, grinding down against the man’s erection. Thick and firm, hot through their clothes. 

John lets his lips drift, kissing the corner of the man’s mouth, the side of his neck. Chandler’s receptive to that as well, panting roughly as he lets his head fall back, grabbing at John's shoulders, running his fingers through John's hair. 

He's less enthusiastic once John pulls back, mouth drifting down his chest — more confused than anything, perhaps slightly wary. 

And then John falls to his knees, between the man's thighs, and at that point he jolts: pushes himself back against the chair, chest rising and falling along with his rapid, sharp breaths. His neck is flushed pink, as are his cheeks, bright beneath his dark beard. John licks his lips. 

“Sir—“ 

“ _John_ ,” he says, perhaps with more force than is merited — the last thing he wants is to throw him out of the moment, bring the thoughts of consequences down on both of their heads. But he’s about to take the man’s cock into his mouth and in John's experience, the artifice of formality becomes particularly jarring in such moments. 

Chandler swallows. Shuts his eyes. "John," he says, softly — learning it, savoring the taste of familiarity it denotes, as he runs his hands through John’s hair again. John smiles at him, gently as he can, and reaches up to unbutton his trousers. 

* 

“What’s your name?” he says, low, hushed — his throat still raw, his skin still hot. 

The man’s brow furrows: displeased, wounded enough to let it show. “You know it’s—"

“No, yes, I meant— I meant—your…” John cringes. “Your Christian name."

“Oh. Uh, Francis."

John raises his eyebrows. “Francis.” Wrinkles his nose. “Any chance of Frank?” 

He snorts. “If you want."

What John wants is a better look at him. Presses his palms to the man’s cheeks, stares him straight in the eye. “Doesn’t quite suit you, does it?” he says, and kisses him again. Soft and swift, impersonal — or meant to be, but broad hands round his waist draw him in again, keep him close. 

They separate slowly, with surprising reluctance: John’s absence will be noted in the house, probably has been already, and there’s not much left to do, here. But Chandler’s hands are still warm and his tongue is still insistent, pressing into John’s mouth, lapping at all he can reach. Cupping the back of his head, running a hand up and down along the curve of John’s spine. It’s as if he’s never been kissed before and entirely expects to never be kissed again. 

It ends, as all things must. John peels himself away, rising on unsteady legs, as Chandler’s hands fall away from his hips. There’s a mirror over the fireplace; John peers past the molted patina to straighten his collar and settle his hair. 

“I haven’t any money,” he says, almost as an afterthought, while inspecting his tie — a lost cause, unsurprisingly. He’ll have to do it again.

Chandler, hazy and breathless, says: “What?" 

John, busy folding the silken edges over each other again, doesn’t look up. “In case you get entrepreneurial aspirations. My reputation’s not worth much to begin with, and I’m worth even less. Couldn’t pay you off if I wanted to."

“I—I wouldn’t do that, why would you—“ he sounds more troubled than offended by the implication, and looks it, too, when John hazards a glance behind him. John, in spite of his better judgment, softens.

“All right,” he says, dropping his gaze again. “Well. I’d best be—"

“I have a place."

“What?” John looks up, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Chandler winces. “On the edge of the woods. Groundkeepers’ house. You could…” he seems at a loss of what to say, lacks the vocabulary and experience to speculate. “Come. If you’d like. Tonight?” 

He could indeed, and more than once if he’s lucky.  John turns around, and blinks — Chandler hasn’t risen from his chair, and is staring at him, soft green eyes practically glowing with affection. The kind of look that’s bound to end badly, and more’s the pity: Chandler seems a decent sort, has proven himself to be an excellent kisser at the least. 

“All right,” John says, knowing better. Forces a smile to cover it. “Tonight. I’ll come.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is ridiculous but of all the (three) fics I've written for this meme so far and several of the ones I've got planned, this is the one I most wish I had the energy/focus to write more of -- in honor of E.M. Forester _at the very least_ I'd want this to end happily. In the way John  & Chas can never really end happily, in their own canon and in any other canon I think to put them in. But in this one, I think, I would like to try it.
> 
> Also it is (unsubtly) Maurice Hall's birthday in the scene from _Maurice_ this is very loosely inspired by, so it felt fitting to both mention it for John and to post it on his actual birthday.


End file.
